Sunday, April 15, 2012

'Twas the Night Before Monday

As is tradition, we bring you the beautiful words of friend of the site, Notorious B.R.O. Fingers crossed Boggs comes.

'Twas the night before Monday, when all throughout Walsh, the sluts and the bros all prepared for the raunch. The 30’s were lined in the fridgeys with care, in hopes that Crunkushevene soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of beer dragons danced in their heads. And Jenkem’s in his croakies, and I in my flatty, had just cracked ourselves our first scrumptious Natty.

When out in the Mods there arose such a clatter, I sprang to the window to see what was the fratter. Away to the Mods we flew with a flash, threw on some fresh pinnies to prepare for the bash.

Jenkem’s screamed out: “What’s that, is it chay?” I looked to the sky, dropped my jaw and said “Nay!” When, what to my blood shot eyes should appear, but a miniature sleigh spewing out beer.

With a legend old driver, a drinking machine, I knew in a moment it must be Crunkushevene. Quicker than gravity he chugged like a boss, he howled and he shouted “FUCK YOU MIKE ROSS!”

He descended from the heavens, and called us by name. Then he echoed out amongst us and explained why he came. “I’ve come for the crunk,” he said with a grin. “I know of tomorrow, now, who brought the tin?”

Lucky for us, I was strapped with a tinny, and I pulled out the Skoal tucked under my pinny. “I’ve seen you before,” Jenkems said with a pause. “Me too” I agreed… "Aren’t you…Wade Boggs?”

My question amused him, he laughed and he said : "'Tis but a farce my good bros, you’ve all been misled. I am more than this beard and this Rays jersey of green. I am the Keeper of the Crunk, some call me Crunkushevene.”

“Now bros, I need pussy! Go find me a vixen. I’ve flown miles to be here, now I need me a fixin'. From the skanks of Co Ro, to the sluts of Walsh Hall, dash away, dash away, dash away all!”

The task at hand was not tough at all, just dropped the name Boggs and the sluts they did fall. After slaying 47 girls in 30 minutes or so, Boggs was done, and he was ready to go.

He climbed back on board his magnificent jet, and quickly inhaled 13 Miller Lites like a legendary vet. Climbing high into the heavens his plane it did soar, ascending to the ranks of Monday folklore.

There we stood, minds in a daze, still bedazzled by the great Boggs’ ways. From the stirrups to the biceps to the impeccable stache, his aura was majestic, his style unmatched.

Now it was bound to be a Monday unlike any other. Boggs came to Walsh as a god, but left as our brother.

He DUI’d his sleigh back to who-knows-where, beer dripping down his chin and Skoal ingrained in his facial hair. Off to a land where women were objects and “No means Yes”, how many he assaulted he’ll never confess.

Knowing not of personality nor brains, Boggs focused on breasts. The children lay warm anticipating a Monday of buddy sips and arrests.

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